


The Queen's Prince

by SummerSwan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deception, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Queen Sansa, Rebellion, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerSwan/pseuds/SummerSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa's plan to protect herself from her husband's wrath sets off a chain of events she never could have anticipated.</p>
<p>In which the Starks and Lannisters have reached an uneasy truce, Ned Stark has been banished to join the Night's Watch, and King Joffrey Baratheon has taken Sansa Stark as his Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Barren Queen

“You’re needed in the Throne Room, Your Grace.”

The Hound didn’t offer anything further. He didn’t need to. Sansa had been waiting for his arrival since Maester Pycelle had left her chambers earlier that morning. It was a routine she had grown accustomed to over the years. Once every moon, she would wake to find her linens stained with blood. Once every moon, her maids would make a show of trying to cover it up for her, but one of them would ultimately let it slip that the Queen had let down the kingdom again. Once every moon, Maester Pycelle would arrive to prod and poke at her, sigh loudly, and then confirm what ought to have already been obvious. And once every moon, her husband would summon her to the Throne Room to announce her continued failure to the court.

Just over three years had gone by since the day she wed King Joffrey Baratheon, and her stomach had yet to grow full with child. They called her The Barren Queen on the streets of King’s Landing. They made jests about her dried up womb. They suggested that the Northron Queen was so cold in bed that the King simply could not bear to touch her. Old wives and street urchins alike took wagers on when the heirless King would finally be rid of her and how he would do it—Would he take her head? Send her back to Winterfell in shame? Pledge her life to service in the Faith? Or would he take a second wife capable of fulfilling her duty to Westeros?

“Help me with this, Kella.” The girl quickly sprang to her feet and helped Sansa fasten the pearl-encrusted pin of her finest cloak, a gift from Lord Baelish. It was trimmed with Myrrish lace and was the white of freshly fallen snow. It perfectly complimented the pale blue gown she had picked out for the day. “Thank you, Kella. You may go now.”

When the maid disappeared, the Hound let out a low laugh. “You look like a proper ice queen in that, ” he rasped. “It’ll only make it worse, you know. The smallfolk already can talk of nothing but your frozen cunt, little bird.”

“Can talk of nothing but your frozen cunt, _Your Grace_ ,” she corrected, as she turned to scrutinize herself in the mirror. “And I think I look lovely, but thank you for the advice.”

He laughed again, but it wasn’t the cruel sound she had learned to steel herself against. Instead, there was something almost sad about it. “I’d keep that wit to yourself when facing the King if I were you, _Your Grace_. Ser Shit-for-Brains says he was in a nasty mood after Pycelle left his chambers and that can’t mean anything good for you.”

The suggestion was kindly meant, but she didn’t need his warnings anymore. She knew her husband’s moods better than anyone else, better than even Joffrey himself. He had been in an especially foul one for weeks, and he was itching for an excuse to unleash his rage upon someone. Three bruised and bloodied whores had to be carried out of his chambers just that week. It was rare that he dared strike her in public now. Beating her would weaken his already poor standing with his subjects. Beating her would also mean risking her family’s wrath if they were to find out. Her father was banished to The Wall, but Robb had already shown once he was willing to rise up against the crown if his family were in danger.

Joffrey worried less about that now than he once did though. Fewer and fewer people were allowed in the Red Keep, and only those the Lannisters trusted most were allowed to be in her company unattended. One by one, they had removed those loyal to her and replaced them with enemies. The Northron-born maids sent from her brother had been dismissed by the King and replaced with girls from the Westerlands, girls she knew reported her every word and action directly to Cersei Lannister. Her last and dearest friend, Jeyne Poole, had been unceremoniously married off to a minor lord in the Reach moons ago. Slowly, they had isolated her, and now she couldn’t even write a letter without Maester Pycelle scanning her every word for something the King might find objectionable. With each passing day, she felt less like a queen and more like a prisoner.

That’s why she had chosen blue and white. She wanted to look like the Maiden reborn when the Hound marched her to the center of the Throne Room. She wanted the blood the swords and mailed fists of the Kingsguard would inevitably draw to shine sharply against the pale fabrics. Even those who openly lamented her reign as Queen and called for her removal the loudest would find it difficult to stomach such a display. All she needed was one of them to be sympathetic to her cause and find a way to write to her brother. All she needed was one of them to care. _I hope he loses his temper. Let them all see the monster he really is._

When she was satisfied with her appearance, she marched past the Hound and began the long walk to the Throne Room. The Hound’s heavy footsteps behind her were a comfort, but they weren’t enough to slow the racing of her heart. She could already feel their fists colliding with her ribs. She could already hear the snapping of her bones and her cries echoing from the castle walls. She could already smell the blood soaking through her gown. She was stronger now than she had been the first time the Kingsguard struck her, but tears still pushed at the backs of her eyes in anticipation.

 _It’s not fair. It’s just not fair._ Part of her knew it was her own fault for not telling Robb and her mother the extent of Joffrey’s cruelty when they arrived for her wedding, but she didn’t want them risking the tenuous peace of the entire kingdom to steal her away. She was the one who was stupid enough to actually think she loved him once, when she had known nothing about him but golden curls and emerald eyes. Still, she couldn’t believe she deserved this fate. She had sacrificed her dreams for the kingdom, but nothing good had come from that choice. And it was not her fault that an heir had yet to be born. Whore after whore had shared her husband’s bed since their wedding, and not one of them had become pregnant either. Not one green-eyed bastard had been presented to him. Even if he deigned to actually lay with her anymore, she knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

The saddest part of it all was how much she truly wanted a child of her own, even if he or she was Joffrey’s blood. When other women passed her with full bellies or children clutching at their skirts, she couldn’t help but be filled with envy. A child would love her the way she loved her mother, and she would love her baby just as fiercely. She doubted Joffrey would bother much with a child. She could raise the babe to be good and kind and strong like her father. She could raise the babe to be the heir the kingdom deserved, no matter who the father happened to be.

When she finally entered the Throne Room, her stomach dropped. Joffrey was sitting on the Iron Throne with Cersei and Tywin on either side of him, Maester Pycelle, Lord Baelish, and Lord Varys standing off to the side, and the Kingsguard lined up in front of him like usual. But, unlike the other times she had been summoned, no one else was there. There would certainly be blood, but her dress would go to waste. No one in this room would reach out to Robb for her. No one in this room would care. Cersei smiled wide when Sansa finally stopped before the throne and knelt; the purpose of the gown was not lost on her. There seemed to be nothing Cersei loved more than reminding Sansa of how great a fool she was.

“Do you know why you’ve been brought here today, wife?” Joffrey leaned forward in his throne, and Sansa noticed the sleeve of his tunic catch on one of the sharp points. The dreams in which he impaled himself upon those points by mistake were her favorites of all, better even than when wings sprouted from her back and she flew home to Winterfell.

“No, Your Grace.” This was how it always began. She had yes once, thinking she’d be clever, but she had paid the price for her insolence. Joffrey preferred her stupid.

“Maester Pycelle visited you today. Is that right?”

“It is, Your Grace.”

“He said you’ve had your moon’s blood. Is that right?”

“It is, Your Grace.”

“And do you know what that _means_?”

Her fists clenched in the folds of her skirts. Her nine-and-tenth nameday had gone by moons ago, but he still spoke to her like a silly child. “Yes, I do, Your Grace,” she answered quietly. “It means I have failed the kingdom again.”

Joffrey made a show of pouting his fat, wormy lips and nodding grimly. “Yes, it means you’ve failed _me_ again,” he agreed. “It has been over three years since we were wed, Sansa. My kingdom expects an heir. All of Westeros will mourn this news, but none will be more disappointed than I am. I was so hopeful Maester Pycelle would finally bring me the news I have been praying for.”

Sansa bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from screaming. It had been nearly half a year since he deigned to share her bed. He preferred his whores now, or the Lady Margaery when she came to court. While his lack of interest came as a relief at the time, she knew what game he was playing with her now. Either she would remain barren long enough for him to be rid of her, or she would grow full with child and he could take off her head for infidelity. “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” she said softly, bowing her head low and focusing on the tips of her white silk slippers. “I will try harder this time. I will do everything I can to give you an heir, my love. You may come to my chambers—”

“I may come to your chambers whenever I fucking want to! You’re my _wife_!” Joffrey screamed. Spit flew from his lips, and his face flushed red. The first strike would come soon, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one to start the beating himself. “I took pity on you, Sansa. I honored my promise to you even when your traitor father confessed his treasons and was banished to die at The Wall. A lesser man would have sent you away. No man would have wanted to marry you then. Instead, I forgave your family and married you anyways. I gave you jewels and gowns and perfumes—everything a woman could possibly want. And how have you returned my kindness? You have insulted and humiliated me over and over again. You have deliberately neglected your duties. You have proven yourself to have traitor’s blood in your veins just like your father.”

The words were all ones she had heard before, but something felt different about this admonishment. Joffrey usually preferred a larger audience for her degradation, and there was typically more amusement behind his rants. She wondered if this would be the day he finally took real action against her. _Cast me aside_ , she thought desperately. _Banish me back home and take another wife._ “I would never betray you, Your Grace,” she declared. “I love you with all my heart.”

Joffrey sighed and leaned back in his throne. The same point caught his tunic again, and this time Sansa thought she could see a drop of blood. “You’ve left me no choice but to punish you, wife. You do see this is what I have to do, right? How will things ever change if you don’t learn?”

“I understand, Your Grace.” _Here it comes._ “You must do what you think is best.”

“Ser Meryn, Ser Boros—teach my traitor wife a lesson,” Joffrey demanded. “But leave her face. I like her face.”

The mailed fist slamming into her stomach hurt more than she remembered anything having hurt before. The impact of Ser Meryn’s punch knocked the wind clear out of her lungs and sent her hurtling forward on to her knees. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and collapsed in on herself, her forehead nearly touching the floor. She stayed curled up like that, praying she could buy herself a moment to catch her breath before the next blow.

The knights didn’t bother to stand her back up though. Instead, Blount slammed the blunt of his sword down against her back. Searing pain shot up her spine and through her body so violently she thought she might vomit. A second hit of the sword came, and this time she couldn’t stop the scream that left her lips. She wanted so badly to be stronger this time. She wanted to remain stoic and silent during the entire beating until she wiped the smirk from Cersei Lannister’s face. But she had failed again. Tears were streaming down her face and her legs were shaking rapidly beneath her when Ser Meryn grabbed her by the hair and forced her upright.

Joffrey was grinning when Blount’s fist crashed into her ribcage. The crunch of bones was drowned out by her wailing. She tried to drop to the floor again, but Trant forcefully kept her standing by tugging at her copper curls. Through her tears, she looked to those around her—to the Hound, who was standing nearby, keeping his eyes anywhere but on her, to Lord Tywin, who frowned but made no move to interfere, to Lady Cersei, who was smirking along with her horrid son, to Lord Baelish, whose hands were clenched around his ledger, but who continued watching on with a mask of polite interest. None of them were going to lift a finger to stop him. None of them were going to say a word even as her husband had her beaten half to death.

While Trant held tight to her, Blount smacked his sword across the backs of her thighs. Her legs completely gave out after the second blow, and not even Trant’s grip on her hair could keep her from falling back to her knees.

“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing to her?” A deep voice called out from somewhere behind her. She hadn’t thought anyone else was there, but maybe she had missed the creaking of the Throne Room doors over her own cries. She wasn’t sure who had protested, but it felt so good to finally hear someone speak on her behalf.

Joffrey’s lips twisted into a scowl. “This is none of your concern, little brother. My wife has failed to do her duty, and she must needs be punished.”

 _Little brother? Tommen?_ Mere moons after her father was taken away to join the Night’s Watch, Tommen Baratheon was sent away to Dragonstone to be fostered with Lord Stannis. Her wedding to Joffrey was the last time she had seen Tommen in King’s Landing, when she was a woman at six-and-ten and he still just a boy at three-and-ten. Three years had gone by since then, and he no longer sounded like a boy.

“And what of _your_ duty, brother?” Tommen shot back. “Is this any way for a husband to treat his wife? Is this any way for a kingto act? What would the Starks think of this?”

Cersei stood up from her seat. “Tommen, stop—”

“Shut up, boy,” Tywin cut in. Joffrey also made to rise from his throne, with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, but one stern look from Tywin prompted him to sit back down. “That’s enough from you all. Release the girl, now.” Trant and Blount didn’t wait for confirmation from Joffrey to step away from her, leaving her alone and trembling at the center of the room. “I think the girl understands her failure well enough.”

“Father—” Cersei began.

“I said _that’s enough_!” Tywin roared, making his daughter flinch. “The point has been made.”

When a new set of hands grasped her waist, she recoiled violently away from the person, terrified of being struck again. “It’s okay,” the voice she now recognized as Tommen’s cooed. “You’re okay. I just want to help you up.”

It was only when he had gotten her back on to her feet that she was able to get a good look at him. The round-faced, plump young boy who always had a kitten cradled in his arms who she remembered was no longer. In his place stood a man who was almost an exact reflection of the Kingslayer, only younger and leaner and with a softness in his green eyes she had never observed in his uncle’s. She thought back on how she had once wished Tommen was the firstborn son, so that she could have married him instead. It was his sweetness that had endeared her to him then. It had never occurred to her that he might someday grow up to be a golden knight straight out of a song.

Tommen opened his mouth to say something, but Joffrey was out of his throne and upon them before a word could be spoken. “Is _this_ why you’ve come back to King’s Landing, little brother?” Joffrey sneered. “Do you want to fuck my pretty little wife?”

“What? N—no!” Tommen exclaimed, shaking his head. “Why would you even say something like that?”

“Because a lot of men want to fuck my wife,” Joffrey answered, stabbing his finger into Tommen’s chest. “I can see it in their eyes. They’re _desperate_ to fuck her. But they don’t know her cunt is as dry as Dorne and as cold as The Wall in the dead of winter. Go ahead and fuck her, little brother. She’ll freeze your cock right off.”

“ _Your Grace_ ,” Lord Tywin growled. “I’ve said that is enough.” For a moment, Joffrey looked like he might actually argue, but he dropped his hand from his sword and stomped back to his throne like a petulant child.

Tommen’s hands increased their grip on her waist, but he took care not to hurt her further. “Are you all right, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’ve been through worse.”

“You’ve—you’ve _what_? Do you mean—?”

“I can bring Her Grace back to her chambers, Prince Tommen,” the Hound offered, before Tommen could ask the question. The Kingsguard swept her out of Tommen’s arms into his like she weighed nothing more than a rag doll.

“Thank you, Clegane,” Cersei said from her place by Joffrey’s side. She had put her hand on her son’s shoulder, as if she was holding him down. “I don’t need to remind you not to be seen by anyone, yes?”

“We’ll not be seen, my lady.”

Cersei flinched at the title. It had been a long time since she had been called _Your Grace_ , but it seemed she would never become used to it. “Good. Take her away.”

She could feel Tommen’s eyes following her, as Clegane marched them swiftly out of the room. An idea came to her then. _Go ahead and fuck her, little brother._ It was an insane notion that would most likely end in disaster, but perhaps it was time for her to finally act, consequences be damned. There was only so much longer Joffrey would stand for his childless wife. She had kept her head down and been good for years while those around her thrived from breaking the rules, and she was sick of it. She was not the stupid little dove everyone seemed to think she was. It was time to show them just what she was capable of.

“Relax, little bird,” the Hound rasped. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m never safe,” Sansa sighed, resting her head against the Hound’s shoulder and letting her eyes flutter shut. “I’ll never be safe here.”

 

* * *

 

The midday sun was shining harshly down upon them, but the heat felt good against her skin. She was thankful for the short-sleeved gowns Lady Margaery had gifted her with during House Tyrell’s last visit to the Red Keep. Some still considered them to be in poor taste, but one of her Northron dresses would have been unbearable in this weather.

“My blooms look lovely, don’t they?” Sansa asked cheerfully, running her fingertips carefully over the crimson petals.

The Hound only grunted in response. He hated these trips to the garden, and she could tell he was cooking in his heavy armor. She wished he would take shelter in the shade of a tree instead of insisting on remaining at her side, but asking him to do so would only piss him off. Since her father’s departure, Sandor Clegane had practically become her shadow. Joffrey thought her terrified of the scarred brute and had appointed him her official guard as a jest. She was thankful Joffrey had yet to figure out that the Hound was the only member of the Kingsguard she felt she could trust. In fact, he was the only person in the Red Keep she felt she could trust at all.

“Would you like one?”

“You want to give me a rose, little bird?” he asked, the corner of his lip twitching in what she now knew was the closest he ever came to smiling. “What is it you need from me then?”

Sansa huffed and placed her hands on her hips. “And what makes you think that I need something, Ser?”

“I’m not a fucking _ser_ ,” he snapped.

“And I’m not a little bird.”

“You sure look like a little bird to me,” he countered. “A pretty little bird that wants something from me, so just get on with it.”

The only advantage she had over the Lannisters and their allies was that they never knew what she was really thinking. She mindlessly repeated empty courtesies until they all thought her nothing but pretty, meaningless words, but she knew the Hound was no longer fooled. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him being able to read her so well, but she knew she wouldn’t survive on her own. She needed allies if she were to ever escape her cage.

“Prince Tommen went riding with some of the other young knights today,” Sansa said, nonchalantly twirling one of the freshly plucked roses between her fingers. “I was hoping we could go to the stables when the Prince returns and that you could ensure no one but me entered for a while.”

“What are you thinking, little bird?”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder to be sure no one was listening. “I’m thinking that I need to start taking steps to save my own life.”

The Hound laughed and looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “Is that right?” he asked. “You ought to have said something earlier. I could have helped you with that. And I’d make you sing like the little bird you are while doing it.”

A blush spread across her cheeks, but she refused to look away from him. That’s what he wanted, to embarrass her, but she had learned to read him as well as he could read her. She knew he was only mocking her, but it was an idea that had actually crossed her mind more than once. The Hound wasn’t the kind of man she imagined she would be with as a girl. He was huge and cruel with a sharp, hooked nose, cold eyes, and a gruesome scar marring half of his face, but he was also the only man in the Red Keep who seemed to give a damn about her. If the child took after him in appearance, she supposed she could pass the babe off as having the dark hair and gray eyes of her Northron family, but it was a risk she deemed too great now that Tommen had returned. Joffrey’s brother could give her the green-eyed, golden-haired babe she needed. Plus, the boy had always looked at her with admiration, and she knew she had only grown more beautiful with age.

“That is kind of you,” she said, taking care to keep her answers vague. “But I think the Prince might be more helpful in this matter.”

“It’s a big risk.”

“I know.” It was a risk she was finally willing to take though. It had been a long time since she first realized the influence she could have on men. Her husband might despise her, but there were men she knew would put their lives in danger just for a chance at sharing her bed. There was power in her copper hair, long legs, and summer blue eyes, and it was time for her to wield it. _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapons, little dove. There’s another one between your legs._ Cersei thought she had been mocking her with that line. In reality, she had been preparing Sansa for this moment.

“Once the boy stole an apple tart from the kitchens before supper was served,” the Hound said. “Just a single tart, but only moments later, he was confessing to his mother and sobbing that he had been bad. He was always honest, that boy, to a fault.”

Sansa nodded and tucked one of her roses into the Hound’s armor, making him scowl. “I remember playing in this very garden with him and his kittens once. A snake came out of nowhere and bit the female kitten; I forget her name, but she was a pretty thing. Tommen was distraught over it. He grabbed a stick and went after the snake himself, thinking nothing of his own safety. He protected the kitten and ran to Maester Pycelle with the poor creature. He begged the Maester to save her, offering to give up his most prized possessions if only he could keep her from death.” She paused for a moment and straightened out the folds of her skirt. “Life is sacred to the Prince. It is in his nature to protect those he cares about.”

The Hound regarded her silently for a long time before nodding. “He’ll be getting back soon. We should be on our way.”

“Thank you, Sandor.”

The corner of his lip twitched again, but he only grunted and pushed her gently away from the blooms towards the direction of the stables. They began their walk to the other side of the castle grounds, never speaking. Every few steps, Sansa glanced sideways toward him, surprised that he had still not removed her rose.

 

* * *

 

Tommen was still in the stables even after all of the other knights had left. She knew him well enough to expect as much. Animals were Tommen’s passion, and by the way he was still gently brushing out his horse’s mane, that hadn’t changed in their years apart. With the Hound guarding the door, she took a deep breath and quietly approached him.

“Tommen?”

He jumped and spun around to face her, spooking his horse. “ _Shh_ , girl, it’s okay,” he cooed, running his hand down the horse’s nose. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare her.”

“Oh no, it’s my fault, Your Grace,” Tommen said, smiling anxiously at her and bowing at his waist. “I’ve just been a bit on edge since I got back, I think. I swear I’m not really like this anymore, like the boy you knew. Lord Stannis says I’ve gotten much better, that I could be an even better warrior than my father someday. There’s just—I don’t know.”

“Something about this place?” Sansa suggested.

Tommen nodded, as he eased his horse back into her stable and clasped the door shut. “It makes me feel like a weak little boy all over again, like I never left.”

“Well, you’re certainly not a little boy anymore,” Sansa assured him. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me the other day. You’re the first person brave enough to tell him to stop.”

“I’m not brave,” Tommen argued, shaking his head. “If I were really brave, I would have hurt him the way he hurt you.”

Sansa reached out to rest her hand against his forearm. He flinched slightly and stared down at her hand but made no move to back away. That was a good sign. “That’s kind of you to say, but the last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

“It’s sick what he does to you,” Tommen muttered. “I had heard rumors in Dragonstone, but I didn’t want to believe them. It’s sick to do that to any woman but especially _you_. You’ve always been so good and kind, and I just don’t understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“How he could not love you. How could any man not love you?”

Sansa’s stomach fluttered. It was the most romantic thing a man had ever said to her. The little girl who dreamed about a golden knight rescuing her had died a long time ago, but a part of her still wanted to revel in his words. “You know your brother,” she sighed. “It’s not in him to love anyone, but I’m glad to finally have a friend here.” She circled her thumb over the muscle of his upper arm and noted the way he seemed to lean in to her touch.

“I’ve thought about you a lot since I left, San—I mean, Your Grace,” Tommen confessed, looking down at his feet. “You were my only friend after Myrcella was sent to Dorne. I’ve wondered how you are. I meant to write, but I know Maester Pycelle reads everything and that Joffrey would be furious. Does he—does he hurt you often?”

“More often than he used to,” she told him. “He’s growing more frustrated with me. The kingdom is calling for an heir, and he won’t stand for it much longer. He wants to cast me aside and take Lady Margaery as his new wife.”

“That can’t be true,” Tommen gasped. “Are you sure?”

Joffrey’s plan to replace her with Margaery Tyrell was abundantly clear to her. The Rose of Highgarden’s visits had become more frequent as of late, and every time she spent more and more of her trip alone in Joffrey’s chambers. It had cheered her at first, but now it made her sick with worry. She feared the Tyrells were too ambitious to stand for Joffrey taking Margaery as a second wife or for him simply sending Sansa way. They would want her removed entirely, so nothing could stand in the way of Margaery’s child being the heir to the throne.

“I’m sure. Tommen, I need your help.”

“Anything, San—Your Grace. What can I do?”

“I’m in terrible danger, Tommen,” she told him, impressed with her own ability to muster up some tears to spill prettily down her cheeks. She moved closer to him, making sure her breasts pressed against his arm. “I’m afraid your brother is looking for grounds to have me executed for treason, so he can take a new wife.”

Tommen’s eyes widened. “But what reason could he possibly have?”

“He could claim I have been taking moon tea. Maester Pycelle would support the claim, I think, and there’s nothing I could do to stop them.”

“No, that won’t happen,” he said. “My mother wouldn’t allow for that.”

“Your mother wants me gone just as much as Joffrey does,” she argued. “They all think I’m barren, Tommen, but I’m not. It’s your brother who cannot have children, but if I say as much, I’ll be beaten or worse for speaking out against him.”

To her surprise, Tommen raised his hand and tenderly brushed back a loose strand of her hair. It was more forward than she thought him capable of. _Perhaps my plan was not so insane._ “How do you know?”

“Your brother has laid with dozens of whores since we were wed, and not one of them has grown full with his child,” she explained. “With another man, I’m sure I could have a child. I just know I could.”

It was then Tommen seemed to realize exactly what she meant when she said she needed his help. He quickly backed away from her and began pacing in front of his horse’s stable, wringing his hands together in front of him. “No,” he said fiercely. “There’s no—that’s not—that _can’t_ happen, Sansa. That would be dangerous and dishonorable and—”

“It’s my only chance, Tommen,” she cried, reaching out and digging her nails into his forearm. “He’s going to have me killed otherwise. He’s going to—”

“I just _can’t_ ,” he interrupted. He looked down at her hands and grimaced like he was in pain. “It would be a terrible sin.”

“How could saving my life possibly be a sin?” she asked him softly. While he seemed to ponder that question, she gathered the courage she needed to do what she did next. She wrapped her arms around Tommen’s neck and then placed her lips softly against his. She was half expecting him to push her away from him, but after a brief pause, he responded by snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her body closer to his. It felt better than she would have imagined being in the arms of a man. The warmth of his body and the soft press of his tongue against hers made her almost forget for a moment where she was and just how much she was risking by doing this. For the first time in a long time, she almost felt safe.

A low moan escaped his lips when she scratched her nails over his scalp and pushed her hips forward to meet his. _I’m wasted on Joffrey_ , she thought when Tommen clung to her like a man holding on for his life. The desperation and blatant need in Tommen’s reaction to her made her feel more powerful than she had ever felt before.

When she finally pulled away from him, his pupils were blown wide and his breathing was slow. “Sansa, I don’t—”

“I’m going to find a knight willing to save me, Tommen,” she said. “I’m going to find someone who can give me what I need. I was hoping you would be my Dragonknight, but if you can’t bear it, I hope you will at least not tell your family about my plans.”

Tommen frowned and looked down at his feet again. “Sansa, look, I—I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe not, but it’s my only hope. I’ve never wanted to be anything but a good and honorable wife, you must know that, but your brother has left me with no choice.”

Tommen was quiet for a long time. The scuffing of his shoe against the dirt floor and the occasional noise from the horses were all that kept them from complete silence. They didn’t have much longer until the Hound knocked on the door as a warning he couldn’t keep people out for much longer, and she was beginning to worry. While she was sure Tommen wouldn’t turn her in to his family, she was growing steadily less confident that he would agree to her plan.

“How would it work?”

“Oh, well, I could show you—”

“No, no,” Tommen said, chuckling quietly. “Not that. I mean, how—how would we meet? Without anyone knowing, I mean.”

It felt like a great weight had suddenly been removed from her shoulders, and she could finally breathe. “The Hound will be guarding my chambers tonight. Come to me when the rest of the castle is asleep, and he’ll let you in.”

“And you’re sure we can trust him? He used to guard my brother—”

“I’m sure.”

The way he bit the corner of his lip made it clear how apprehensive he was of the plan, but he met her eyes with unexpected confidence. “I’ll come to you,” he declared, reaching out to hold one of her hands between his. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, not anymore.”

It was something a knight from a song would say. The girl she had been would have swooned at such a promise, but all she felt now was relief. “Thank you, Tommen. I don’t know how I will ever be able to thank you for this.”

 

* * *

 

The shift she chose for the occasion had been a wedding gift from her Aunt Lysa. It was more scandalous than anything her mother would ever choose for her, but it was a gorgeous garment. The straps were naught but a thin strand of diamonds, and the fabric was gauzy enough to show every curve of her body. The neck of the shift dipped lower than anything else she owned, nearly revealing the nipples of her breasts. She liked that it was high in the back though, covering the thin scars that slashed across her skin. Its only other modest feature was the black color of the material that kept it from being completely see-through, but its darkness made the reds of her hair and the blue of her eyes all the more striking.

She had taken even greater care with her hair. The curls looked loose and effortless, but they had taken her hours to get just right without help from her maids. They cascaded low down her back and over her pale shoulders. The dim light of the candles she had lit caught in the strands and made them almost shine like gold.

She twirled in the mirror for the hundredth time to make sure she looked nothing short of perfect. There was no room for error. She couldn’t take the chance of Tommen coming to her only to decide at the last moment he could not betray his brother.

“No man’s going to turn you away looking like that, little bird.”

Sansa yelped and quickly covered herself with the silk robe draped over bed. “You can’t be in here,” she hissed at the Hound, narrowing her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A smirk yanked at the burnt corner of his lips in a way that made her want to slap him. “Just making sure you hadn’t changed your mind about tonight, little bird.”

“You’re my friend, and I trust you, but I’m still the _Queen_ , Sandor,” she said, hugging herself to cover her chest. “You can’t just walk into the _Queen’s_ chambers like this. It’s not proper.”

“It sure as hell isn’t proper for the Queen’s husband’s brother to be coming in here either, is it?” he challenged. “And yet.”

“Are you saying you won’t do it?” she asked. Usually, she had no problems with hiding her emotions, but tonight the panic was clear in her voice. “Because if you won’t do it, you need to tell me now before—”

“I’m not saying that,” he snapped, glaring down at her. “I’ll let the boy in, if he comes.”

“He’ll come.”

“You’d better hope so, little bird.” He turned away from her, his white cloak whipping after him and closed the door of her chambers with a soft thud.

She clutched her chest and took a deep breath. When her breathing had slowed back to normal, she turned to her table and dabbed some of her finest perfume she possessed on the insides of her wrists and on her neck just under her ears. _He won’t be able to resist you_ , she tried to tell herself, as she took off her robe and twirled in the mirror one last time. _He won’t let you down._

“Seven hells.”

This time Sansa didn’t gasp. She only turned her head and looked at him shyly over her shoulder. “You came.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

He took a step toward her and then immediately backed off. The way he was fretfully clenching and unclenching his fists made her smile. _He’s nervous. I wonder if he’s ever laid with a woman before._ She liked the idea that she might be his first. She liked the idea that she might finally be the one in control. “I’m glad you did.” Slowly, she turned entirely around to face him. His eyes immediately dropped to her barely concealed breasts and then shot back up to her eyes, as his face flushed a deep shade of red. “Do I look okay?”

Tommen swallowed and opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, “You—you look—you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Heat pooled low in her gut, and it felt like a coil was being steadily tightened within her. She thought this feeling was lost to her after her wedding night with Joffrey. She was sure she’d never be excited to lay with a man again after her new husband held her down and grunted the most obscene words in her ear while he thrust inside her. It was a relief to discover that Joffrey hadn’t ruined her, that Tommen and his broad shoulders and gentle smile and soft, golden curls could still inspire such a reaction from her.

“You’re beautiful too, you know.”

If it were possible, he blushed even redder at that. “No, Joffrey was always the handsome one.”

The sound of _his_ name doused some of the excitement that had been building inside of her. She didn’t want to think of him at that moment, but she needed to assure Tommen. “Joffrey takes after your mother. He’s beautiful in a way, I guess, but he’s not handsome, not like you. You’re the knight that maidens dream about, not him.”

Tommen smiled, and his entire face lit up as a result. “You really think so?”

She moved cautiously toward him until she was close enough to press the palm of her hand to his dimpled cheek. “I really think so.”

His eyes fell to her breasts again and then snapped back up just as swiftly as the first time. “This is—I’m not sure this is right, Sansa.”

“You’re saving me, Tommen.” She spoke softly while she rested her other hand on his chest over his heart. “You’re my hero.”

That broke him. His entire body instantly relaxed under her hands, and he leaned toward her to bury his face into the crook of her neck. But from there, he must have been able to see the violent marks the Kingsguard had left on the backs of her legs, because his muscles suddenly tensed again. “Does Joffrey hurt you a lot?”

 _Stop saying his damned name._ “It depends on his mood,” she answered honestly. “I’ve learned to go away inside when he does. Sometimes I barely feel it at all.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Tommen murmured. “I learned how to do that too, when I was younger. I know he can’t hurt me anymore. I’m bigger than him now and better with a sword than he’ll ever be, but part of me is still terrified of him. I feel like a coward.”

“You’re braver than your brother could ever hope to me,” she said, pulling back so she could look into his eyes again. “Even when we were all just children, I knew you were the braver son. Joffrey was all bluster. You were the one who would get knocked off a horse and stand back up asking to try again. Joffrey would throw a tantrum and call for the poor beast’s death. You’ve always been better than him. I used to fantasize about you being the firstborn son. You would have been a good husband to me, and you would have been a good king.”

Tommen grasped her face between his hands and swept her up into a fervent kiss. He moved them backwards until the backs of her knees hit the bed and sent them falling over on to her soft linens. It was more passion than she could have ever expected from the shy, lovable little boy she used to know. Her plan had been to use pretty garments and even prettier words to seduce him, but it seemed the truth worked even better.

She pushed him back until she was the one on top and moved down the bed to unlace his trousers. When they were undone, she pulled them down his legs along with his smallclothes and threw them to the floor. It excited her to find that he was already hard. The only manhood she had ever seen before that moment was her husband’s, and she couldn’t help but compare them. Tommen’s was about the same length as she remembers Joffrey’s being, but it was thicker and there was only a small tuft of blond hair at its base. Lightly, she moved her fingers along its length and grinned when Tommen arched his head back into the pillow and moaned.

One of the girls her Aunt Lysa had brought to the wedding with her from the Vale, Lady Myranda, had told Sansa making love was the best feeling in the world. She had described in great detail how a woman could peak just like a man. It had made Sansa miserable to hear such things then. Joffrey was never going to care about her pleasure, and he was never going to rouse anything within her but revulsion. But now, as she walked her fingers over the hard ridges of Tommen’s stomach, she found herself praying Myranda had been telling the truth.

She tossed away his tunic to join the rest of his clothes and straddled his hips. His eyes scrunched shut and his back arched again when she moved herself over his length. “Can I?” he whispered, tugging at the end of her shift. “Or do you want to leave it on?”

The question made her remember the way Joffrey had lunged at her and torn at the beautiful shift her mother had made her for the moment they were alone. It felt so good to finally be asked for her consent, for someone to finally feel that she ought to be in control of her own body. She wanted to throw the shift away, but then she remembered the bruises littering her skin.

“There are—there are marks,” she warned. “Is that all right?”

He frowned and his face twisted with what looked like anger, but he still nodded. “But only if it’s all right with you.”

 _Let him see you. Remind him what he’s saving you from._ “Then let me,” she said, raising the fabric over her head and leaving her bare before him. His eyes bulged when he realized she was wearing nothing beneath it.

“Gods, you’re too beautiful to be real.” He ran his hands leisurely up her knees and over her ribs, careful to avoid touching her wounds, until he finally cupped one of her full breasts. He ran his thumb over her nipple, and she sighed at the feeling. “How—how would you—?” he abandoned that question and took a deep breath before trying again. “What do you like? I just want you to be comfortable.”

It embarrassed her to realize she didn’t really know the answer to that question. She and Joffrey always laid together in the same way, with him on top of her. It felt like he was smothering her that way, like she was trapped under his weight. But she liked where she was now, above Tommen with her hands gripping his shoulders. It pained the backs of her legs when she moved too quickly, but she decided it was worth it to maintain this control. “I think—I, well, I think—” She felt like a maiden again, as she struggled to articulate what she wanted. “I’d like to stay on top, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, I can see you better this way,” Tommen said, grinning and resting his hands around her waist just above her hipbones. “Just let me know what you want.”

All she wanted was to kiss him, so she dropped forward and did just that. As she kissed him, she rolled her hips over him again and loved the way he moaned into her mouth. She pulled away to press her lips to his collarbone and then up his neck until she reached his ear. “I want you,” she breathed, “I want you so much.” His hands gripped tighter to her, and a burst of pain shot out from one of the welts on her gut. She was glad Tommen didn’t seem to notice her wince though. He would have pulled away had he seen, when what she really wanted was for him to hold her even closer.

After one more kiss, she straightened out her back again and knelt over him. She shuffled forward a bit and grasped him in her hand. “Are you ready?”

Tommen chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for anything.”

Sansa laughed as well, and before she could even think to feel nervous over what was about to happen, she sunk down on to him. It felt like she was being stretched, but it was a good sensation. An almost pained sort of grunt left Tommen when she pressed down further that she was sure the Hound must have heard. “ _Shh_ ,” she giggled, covering his mouth with her hand before moving again. “You’re going to wake the entire castle.”

“Gods,” he mumbled against her hand, looking up at her with wonder in his eyes, as she moved up and down and then up and down again. The coil that had been forming inside of her since he arrived tightened with every movement she made. It felt she was building toward something; she wasn’t sure what it was, but she desperately wanted to get there. “Seven fucking hells.”

It was the first time she had ever heard him curse, and she might have laughed if she had not been so focused on the way her toes were beginning to curl. The feeling only intensified when he moved his hand down her body and pressed his thumb against that place she had only touched once herself, when Joffrey had been away on a hunt for weeks and she was sure he would not discover her carrying out such a wanton act. She threw her head back and gasped, and Tommen hurriedly put his hand back on her thigh.

“I—I’m sorry. Someone told me women liked that.”

“I did like it. Please don’t stop.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and moved his hand until his thumb pressed down on it again. When she let go, he began drawing agonizingly slow circles, as she continued to move above him. The tightening in her stomach continued to build until she almost felt like she might snap, like she couldn’t breathe. “Tommen,” she cried, as the feeling overtook her and flowed over her body in waves.

“Sansa,” he breathed, as he met her every thrust with one of his own. “Sansa, are you—? Sansa, I’m going to—”

“Go ahead,” she told him, holding firm to his curls. “I already did.”

“You might want to cover my mouth again.” Sansa laughed out loud and kissed him instead, pushing her tongue deep into his mouth, as he thrust into her one last time with a low groan. When he finished, he rolled her smoothly over on to her back and balanced above her on his elbows. “Is this okay? I—I didn’t want anything to, you know, come out.”

Sansa was tempted to laugh again, but the sentiment was so sweet, she managed to keep it in. That was the reason why they were here, after all, to succeed where she knew she and Joffrey never would. There was no certainty that Tommen would be any different than his brother in that regard or that it really wasn’t Sansa herself that was the problem, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell long on those concerns. It had been years since she had felt this much hope for the future, and she wanted to hold on to it just a little bit longer.

“Gods, I think I love you, Sansa.”

It took everything in her not to withdraw from him then. It took everything in her to keep her face from showing what she was truly feeling. She didn’t love him. She could have loved him once, she thought, when she was still a sweet girl who wanted nothing more than a sweet, Southron boy to save her. But she couldn’t now. He was gentle and brave, but he was still a Lannister, and she would never be able to forget that.

She couldn’t bear to tell him that now though, not after what he had risked to come to her. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and said what he wanted to hear, “I think I love you too.”


	2. The Traitor Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m always careful,” she told him. “And I made up my mind a long time ago that I would never let them win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, there is an uncomfortable and violent sexual situation early on in this chapter. I tried to make it as brief as possible while also still addressing the unfortunate necessities of Sansa's plan.

After nearly a full moon and four clandestine encounters with the Prince, Sansa knew what needed to be done next. It was the part of her treasonous plan she dreaded most. She didn’t yet know if Tommen had succeeded where his brother had failed so many times, but it was too great a risk to put aside the unpleasant task until she was certain.

“I worry King Joffrey has lost all interest in me.”

The Hound snorted at the confession. He looked away from the blue ribbon she was threading through her braid and met her eyes in the mirror, arching the brow on the unmarred side of his face. “That sounds like a problem you ought to be thankful for, Your Grace. You should see the women lucky enough to share the boy king’s bed.”

_Oh, I’ve seen them. I’ve watched them be carried away, bruised and bloody and weeping, and I’ve said absolutely nothing._ It surprised her how much sympathy she felt for the women laying with her husband. It was not so long ago she had thought herself in love with Joffrey Baratheon, after all. The idea of him being with other women would have horrified her then, but now she only felt ashamed by how relieved she was that it wasn’t her being hurried away by the Spider in the early hours of the morning.

“You know why it’s a problem,” she said quietly, as she considered herself in the mirror. She pinched at her cheeks to give them some color. “I wish to give the kingdom the heir it deserves.”

The Hound snorted again, louder this time, but he had the good sense not to say what she knew he was thinking— _You wish to give the kingdom a bastard, you mean._ “The King doesn’t much appreciate your dead-eyed ice queen act,” he said. “I’ve heard he has his _companions_ pretend to be anxious maidens. He likes it when they cry.”

_Of course he does._ She had cried on their wedding night in spite of her best efforts to remain cold and impassive and just short of defiant throughout the entire affair. When he stood in front of her and dropped his robe, chest thrust out and small cock hanging limply between his legs, she tried to only see the sharp cheekbones and the way the candlelight caught in his green eyes and stunning golden curls. She even tried imagining he was the Kingslayer instead, strong and shining in golden armor with a crown of roses in his hand. But the fear and revulsion remained. Her husband was pleasing enough to the eyes, but she knew too well the vileness that lurked beneath the beauty. So when he pressed his thick, wormy lips to hers, she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. It was only then Joffrey grew erect, as his tongue swiped over the moisture clinging to her cheeks.

“Help me with this, would you?” Sansa held out a silver necklace embellished with dozens of sea pearls. It was a gift from Cersei for her last nameday. She loathed the necklace, but she had a feeling Joffrey might enjoy the drama of ripping it from her neck and watching the delicate little pearls scatter about his feet.

“I’m not your handmaiden, girl.”

“ _Your Grace_ ,” she corrected sharply. “I am your Queen, and you will be my handmaiden if I wish it. So, again, help me with this, would you?”

After a long pause, he finally took the necklace from her outstretched hand, but the way his mouth twisted into a snarl told her he was just barely resisting the urge to hurl it back in her face. He grunted something inaudible, as he clasped the piece around her neck with a surprising gentleness and then backed away. “Happy, Your Grace?” he growled.

“Delighted,” she drawled. “How do I look?” She stood and smoothed out the intricate white lace of her gown. It was a gift from her mother that she feared Joffrey might destroy, but the color made her look like an innocent maid on her wedding day. 

The Hound grunted again and dragged his eyes from the ribbon in her hair all the way down to the white slippers on her feet. “Like a foolish little maiden with tits too big for her age.”

Sansa couldn't stop herself from flinching at his crudeness, but she didn't scold him. The honesty was appreciated, even if it made her uncomfortable. “Good.” She turned to the mirror and adjusted her hair one last time before turning to the Hound and declaring, “I will visit my husband’s chambers now. You will escort me.”

“And if he doesn’t want to see you, Your Grace?”

“I am still his _wife_ and his Queen, whether he likes it or not,” she snapped. “He will see me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The King is discussing important matters with Lord Tyrell at the moment, Your Grace,” Ser Meryn told her when she requested entrance to Joffrey’s rooms. “You will have to wait until their business is concluded, I’m afraid." 

Sansa knew exactly what those _important matters_ were. Though he had never exactly been one for subtlety, Mace Tyrell had grown garishly obvious about his desire for Lady Margaery to become the new queen as of late. The fat, stinking flower was constantly extolling his daughter’s intelligence and beauty and gentleness, even when Sansa was clearly within earshot.

_I wonder if Margaery acts a scared maiden when she’s with him. I wonder if she cries and whimpers while she fucks my husband as I sleep just down the hall._ “I am so sorry to interrupt, but I really must see the King this instant. If you’ll only let him know I’m here, I’m sure he’ll want to see me.”

Ser Meryn had the gall to actually roll his stupid, too-small-for-his-face eyes at her. It had been clear since her wedding day that few in the service of the Lannisters took her seriously, but such conspicuous dismissal was new and unsettling. _Joffrey plans on ridding himself of me soon, and they all know it._ “I will let His Grace know,” Trant acquiesced grudgingly, before disappearing through the doors, bright white cloak swinging behind him. 

She wanted to rip that cloak from his back and tear it to shreds. She wanted to press it into the mud until it was as dirty and black as it deserved to be. She wanted to use it to wrap the wounds on her back and thighs that would still reopen if she moved in the wrong way. She wanted to see the clean white cloth streaked with her blood.

“You’re baring your teeth like a wolf, little bird.”

The Hound’s rasping voice startled her back into the moment. She glanced down to see her hands had balled into fists around the folds of her skirt. Her face felt hot, but she wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or rage. “I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate them all. Sometimes I think you’re the only true knight here.”

Sansa didn’t turn to him when she said those words, only fixed her eyes harder on her own hands. He had been kind to her over the years, kinder than almost anyone else, but the disdain in his eyes when she spoke like this, like a foolish girl, made her feel as small as the grains of dirt clinging to the bottom of her slippers.

“Your Grace—”

Whatever the Hound planned on sneering at her was cut short when Ser Meryn appeared again sooner than expected, with Lord Tyrell close at his heels. “The King will see you now, Your Grace,” Trant announced, bowing to her as shallowly as was acceptable.

Though he bowed as well, Tyrell practically glared at her as she passed by him. _He’s growing bolder as well. I don’t have much longer until Joffrey finally invents a reason to take off my head._ “Thank you, Ser Meryn,” she said steadily, even though her heart was now racing. “Please remember that we are not to be disturbed. Not even the Lady Cersei should be permitted to enter.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

A wave of nausea washed over her when Ser Meryn closed the doors behind her, removing the Hound from her side and leaving her alone with her husband. Joffrey was sitting by a window with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a cruel smirk on his stupid fat lips. The smirk transformed into an even crueler smile when she immediately sank to her knees in front of him. “I’ve come to plead for your forgiveness, Your Grace,” she said in her smallest, most timid voice. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. I know you have more important matters you could be attending to.”

“I always have time for my beautiful little wife. It’s been too long since we’ve been alone, hasn’t it, sweetling?” he practically purred, leaning over her so she could feel the warmth of his breath against the top of her head. A shiver shot down her spine, as he reached out to run his hand softly over her hair and twist her braid around his fist. It was almost impressive how he could make the kindest words and gentlest touches so frightening. “But I fear you have a lot to be forgiven for.”

“I know, my love,” she said, looking down at her clasped hands. They were shaking almost violently. She hated that it was an involuntary reaction rather than part of the act. _Am I still so afraid of him?_ “I have failed you in so many ways, my love. But if you’ll only let me try again, I just know—”

Before she could finish, Joffrey yanked at her braid and pulled her up from the ground until their faces were almost pressed together. “You know what they call you, wife?” He spat the question in her face. “They call you The Barren Queen. They _laugh_ at us, laugh at _me_. They call me a fool. They say I’ll never have an heir and that my pathetic brother will inherit the throne. Is that what you want? To make me look like a fool?” Sansa shook her head and made to answer, but he clasped his free hand over her mouth. “Yes, that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? You want revenge for me banishing your traitor of a father to the Wall. You want to make a mockery of our reign. Lord Tyrell has suggested that perhaps you’ve been taking moon tea—”

“No!” Sansa cried out against his palm, prompting him to pull it away. “I would never do that, my love. I swear it!” He tugged hard at her braid again, and she let the tears that had been building behind her eyes start to fall. “There is nothing I want more than a child, _your_ child. Please, just give me one more chance. I beg you, my king. I will grow pregnant this time, I just know it.”

He released her hair and dragged his thumbs roughly under her watery eyes. “You really are a pathetic creature, you know that?” he hissed, holding her face between his hands. “Every maiden in the kingdom wants to share my bed. They’re desperate to be my queen and bear my children and do whatever I say. But I still chose you, a traitor’s daughter, because of a promise my father made to yours. I could have cast you aside—”

“I know, Your Grace, I know!” she almost shouted, openly weeping now. She was surprised by just how easily the tears came. “And I am so grateful you chose me as your wife. Please, I can do better. I can be good. I can be a good wife.”

As her sobs grew more violent, a change passed over her husband’s face. His eyes looked brighter and his smile widened, revealing his perfect white teeth. Abruptly, he let go of her face and tore at the pearl necklace. Despite the sting against the back of her neck, she almost laughed out loud as she watched the pearls tumble to and scatter across the floor. She might not have loved her husband, but she _knew_ him, better than he could ever hope to know her. “You’re lucky you’re so beautiful, wife,” he sneered, as he pushed her toward the table at the center of the room. “Or else I’d have absolutely no use for you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she sniffed, as the small of her back pressed against the hard edge of the table. “I’m so pleased you think me beautiful.”

“That wasn’t praise, you stupid creature.” He kicked away the pearls at their feet and plucked his dagger from atop a book behind her. Her entire body tensed when he raised the blade and held it to her throat. “Don’t worry, little wife, I’m not going to kill you,” he chuckled. “Don’t move. I don’t want your blood all over my new rug.” She fought against her instinct to pull away from him when he plunged the dagger between her breasts and started dragging it down, opening the bodice of her gown and the shift underneath it. Shame filled her when her breasts spilled out and her nipples hardened at being exposed to the chill of his chambers, but she pushed the feeling away and forced herself to focus on her husband’s face. If he lost interest before the act was complete, she would need to suffer his attentions again.

Her entire body shuddered when he ran the cold flat of the blade against her nipple and then over her sternum until he reached the hollow of her throat. “Please, my love, be gentle with me. Please.” _That’s what a maiden would say. That’s what Joffrey wants to hear._ She sniffed again and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Please, be gentle, Your Grace. Like you were on our wedding night. I think about that night all the—”

“I’ll do whatever I want with you,” he snapped, but, to her relief, he tossed the dagger back on to the table. His eyes narrowed, as he raked them over her body, taking in every inch of her exposed skin. A predatory grin formed on his lips. He pulled at the torn white fabric still clinging to her until he rid her of the garment entirely, leaving her in nothing but her smallclothes. “This is the only way you haven’t failed me, wife,” he said, as his hands roamed over her breasts and down her ribs into the sharp dip of her waist. “But perhaps it’s for the best you’re broken,” he mused, while pinching the pale skin of her belly. “Mother worries our children would have been stupid like you.”

_Or maybe they would have been monsters like you._

Sansa said nothing when he grabbed her by the back of the neck and dragged her roughly toward his bedchambers. She said nothing when he guffawed at the way she stumbled and crashed into the bed after a particularly brutal shove forward. And she said nothing when he demanded, “Take off your smallclothes and lay on the bed. And don’t talk. None of your insipid _my love_ shit. This is your last chance to make up for your failures, little wife.”

It was tempting to go away inside of herself then. It was tempting to stare up at the ceiling and think of Winterfell and her family and the Hound’s oddly comforting presence and maybe even Tommen’s gentle hands while her husband moved above her. But instead she focused intently on every grunt and every thrust, making sure the tears kept falling, making sure she cried out in pain whenever his attention began to drift, making sure there would be no doubt in his feeble mind when she eventually grew full with child.

Sansa scrubbed her skin red and raw that night. It was far from the worst abuse she had suffered at his hands, but it left her feeling sick to her stomach. The maids said nothing of the angry purple marks and small cuts on her hips and shoulders and neck. They were silent as they readied her for bed, and she found herself thankful for their indifference for once. Pretty lies for how the bruises appeared were on the tip of her tongue— _Silly me, I tripped down the staircase; Silly me, I fell from my horse; Silly me, I stumbled over my own feet in the gardens right into the rosebushes because I'm a complete moron; Silly, silly me_ —but it was a relief to leave them unspoken. Soon, she would have far greater lies to tell.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa’s maids were growing more agitated with every passing day, and she was having an increasingly difficult time resisting slapping the entire lot of them. It was not their panic over her lack of moonsblood and the way her breasts were swelling against her gowns and the queasiness that overtook her nearly every early afternoon that annoyed her, but rather the shameless overtness of it all. Disappointment showed clearly on their faces every morning they found her bed linens unstained. Their jaws clenched and their smiles faltered and their hands fidgeted with the folds of their skirts every time she pressed her hands to her stomach and talked wistfully of the babe that might be finally growing inside of her.

“Perhaps your blood is just late, Your Grace. It happens to my sister all the time,” one of her handmaidens suggested that morning, after nearly two moons had gone by since her last bleeding. Sansa had narrowed her eyes at the girl, and the ugly, weasel-faced girl quickly stuttered out an apology. “I—I’m sorry, Your Grace. Please don’t misunderstand me. I so hope you are with child. I truly do. I pray for it every day.”

_Oh, I’m sure you do. Cersei ought to find herself some little birds who can at least properly pretend to be on my side._ “Maybe you’re right, little dove, but it does not hurt to hope, does it?” Sansa responded sweetly, running her hands over her tummy again for good measure. The girl tried to smile but ended up grimacing instead. _What did I ever do to you? Why do you so badly wish to see me discarded? What has Cersei promised you should I fail?_ These were the questions she wanted to ask nearly everyone in the Red Keep. Some days, it felt like the Hound and Prince Tommen were the only people who didn’t actively wish her dead.

“You should have them call on Maester Pycelle. That will shut them up,” the Hound snarled after the girl was dismissed.

“Not yet,” Sansa said, allowing herself a smirk. “Best to let my goodmother and devoted husband fret over it for a few more days, I think.”

“ _That’s_ why you’re waiting then, huh?”

Sansa didn’t like the way he asked the question, like he could see right through her. _He knows I’m afraid. He knows I’m terrified something will go wrong, or that I might be wrong about it all. What do I know about being with child anyways?_ “Yes, the only reason,” she snapped, more harshly than she intended. “I will call on him in a few days, and I will hear no more arguments from you on the matter in the meantime.”

Instead of glaring at her like he usually would, the Hound gave her a bemused sort of look. “Women are fucking intolerable when they are with child,” he grumbled, though there was a hint of something lighter in his tone.

“That is not a kind thing to say.”

“And I am not a kind man.”

“Yes, so you like to say,” she sighed, rising wearily from her chair. She was relieved when her stomach didn’t immediately turn at the movement. “I should like to break my fast with my family this morning, if you would escort me.”

“Are you going to make a scene of vomiting in front of the lot of them then?”

Sansa smirked again. “Now that wouldn’t be very ladylike of me, would it?” She moved past him and down the hall. The heavy footfalls of her loyal guard behind her lulled her into a probably unwise feeling of safety, and she felt a smile begin to bloom on her face. She did nothing to suppress it, nothing to return her expression to distant and quietly insolent. _Let me them see you smile_ , she thought to herself. _Let them fear you for once._

 

* * *

 

 

The roses were coming along beautifully, as were the rest of her blooms. They were full and bursting with color and so very alive. Dark soil dirtied the front of her dress, as she knelt down to run her fingers over the soft, dewy petals, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was the only place in the Red Keep they let her have as her own, where every move she made wasn’t questioned and criticized. If nothing else, Sansa would leave this thriving garden as her legacy. It might not be much, but it was better than the death and destruction other leaders had left behind.

“I—I need a moment alone with the Queen, if—if you would.” A soft, familiar voice stuttered out the request from somewhere behind her. She craned her neck and watched as Sandor Clegane nodded and moved to the edge of the garden, out of earshot but certainly not out of sight. When the Hound came to a stop, Prince Tommen slowly approached her, looking down at his feet as he walked. 

Sansa pushed herself up from the ground and felt her stomach twist when Tommen instinctively gripped her elbow to help her. “Thank you, my Prince,” she said, nodding to him. She brushed futilely at the front of her muddy skirt. “What brings you to my garden?”

Tommen didn’t answer, only glanced anxiously over his shoulders and then over hers. When he did so for a second time, Sansa couldn’t help but chuckle. “No one will overhear us. The most open places are the safest places to speak. There’s nowhere for the Red Keep’s little birds to hide here. I had the thickest trees and bushes removed to be sure.”

“How much do you tell the Hound?” Tommen whispered, looking over his shoulder again.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He can be trusted. He’s the only one who can be trusted.”

Tommen bit his lip, clearly not as confident in her scarred guard as she was. “And you confide in no one else, yes?”

“Well, there is you, my Prince." 

The corners of Tommen’s lips ticked up slightly. “Can you call me Tommen here?”

“If you wish it, yes. And you can call me Sansa.”                         

Tommen’s smile grew wider and his posture relaxed. “I’ve—I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Sansa,” he began, “Since—since that night, and the other nights.”

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot as well.”

“And then this morning, well, at breakfast when…”

“When I grew sick?” Sansa suggested, when his voice trailed off. “I’m awfully embarrassed about that,” she lied. “A queen should not make such a display of herself.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sansa,” Tommen assured her. “But I’ve heard people whispering in the halls. They’re saying that—that getting ill like that, that it’s a sign that you’re with child. And you’ve looked so beautiful lately, and your breasts are—I mean, I didn’t, I’m sorry.” His cheeks flushed red bright, and she was struck by the sudden, insane urge to kiss him right there in the open.

Instead, she cleared her throat and tried to keep her expression neutral, just in case anyone was observing them from the Red Keep above. “I believe that I am with child,” she told him. “I believe that I am with _your_ child.”

Tommen sucked in a sharp breath and looked everywhere but in her eyes. “Then—then I suppose our treachery can end.”

There was a tightening in her chest at those words. What he was suggesting shouldn’t have surprised her. In fact, she should have been the one to insist their meetings end now before they were discovered and everything ruined. There was so much at stake—the kingdom, her family, her life itself—but she couldn’t ignore the stab of regret she felt at the thought of letting him go. It wasn’t that she was in love with him; Sansa wasn't even sure she would know how that would feel. It was the way his hot hands felt against her bare skin, it was the way her body would wind up like a taut bowstring as he pressed his fingers between her legs, it was the way his soft, blond locks felt under her palms when she peaked. The thought of losing it, of losing the small bit of companionship she had in this horrible place, made her feel empty.

“It doesn’t have to.” _What? What the hell did you just say?_

Tommen’s eyes snapped to hers, wide and incredulous. “Sansa, it’s—it’s too dangerous. I love you, but—I just, I love you too much to put you at risk. It would be selfish.”

Something fluttered in Sansa’s chest when he spoke those words. _I love you._ Maybe it was her loneliness that was making her act like this. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t heard those words spoken aloud to her without sarcasm since her family left following her wedding. Those words made her feel powerful. They made her feel as alive as the flowers surrounding them.

“No one will know,” she promised, reaching out to squeeze his hand for the briefest of moments, so briefly that anyone watching would question if she had moved her hand at all. “Come to me tomorrow night.”

“Sansa, I—”

“Don’t say you can’t,” she interrupted. “Because you can. I refuse to let your brother and mother continue to isolate me, to dictate every aspect of my life like I am something to be owned. I want you, and you want me. And I want you to come to me tomorrow night. I want you to touch me. I want to feel you move inside me again. I want—”

Tommen groaned and scrubbed at his forehead. “Seven hells, Sansa,” he muttered. “You can’t say things like that.”

“And why not, if that’s what I’m thinking?”

Tommen held up his hands in exasperation. “Because there are _rules_. And consequences for breaking those rules.”

He was right, of course he was right, and she really did know better than this. She had only survived this long by keeping her head down and speaking pretty, meaningless words, not by carrying on traitorous affairs. But she would be lying if she denied there was some part of her that reveled in how furious all of this would make Joffrey if he were ever to find out, if he were to learn how his wife had moaned and writhed underneath his sweet little brother’s hands.

“It’s up to you, Tommen. Come to me or not, I will still always be grateful for what you’ve done for me. You saved my life.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, not anymore,” he declared, standing taller than before. “If they—if they try to hurt you again, especially in your condition, I promise I won’t let it happen.”

_They won’t hurt me if I’m with child. Tywin wouldn’t allow it. The Lannisters need a royal heir far more than they need to be rid of me._ But she appreciated the sentiment, even if the gallantry of it all struck her as naïve. “I know you won’t.”

Tommen nodded and then bowed low before her. “I hope you a lovely day, Your Grace.”

“And you, my Prince.”

Sansa watched as Tommen walked away from her. The way his golden hair shined even amongst the rainbow of flowers around him made her wish she had more skill with paints, so she could capture this moment. She fixed it in her mind instead, another pretty picture to call upon the next time Joffrey sneered at her or Cersei called her a stupid little dove.

“And what is it you think you’re doing, little bird?” the Hound asked, as he took his place by her side again.

“Speaking with my husband’s brother,” she answered innocently. “He wished to inquire about my health after what happened earlier today.”

“I'm sure he did," the Hound said. "Just be careful, Your Grace. This is a dangerous game you're playing.”

The softness of his warning surprised her, though she supposed it shouldn’t have. Why would the Hound have risked his own life to help with her treason if he did not care about her, if he did not wish to see her survive this place? “I’m always careful,” she told him. “And I made up my mind a long time ago that I would never let _them_ win.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Sansa finally returned to her chambers, just as the sun was beginning to set, she wasn’t as surprised as perhaps she should have been to find her goodmother sitting on the edge of her bed. It wasn’t proper for anyone to enter the Queen’s chambers without being announced, but most of the Kingsguard still viewed Cersei Lannister as their true queen.

“How did you do it?”

Thick golden curls fell around the older woman’s face like a lion’s mane. Her green eyes pierced through the growing darkness of the room, making Sansa's body tense.  As calmly as she could manage, Sansa walked to her dressing table and lit the candle there. “How did I do what, Lady Cersei?”

Cersei’s mouth twisted, as it always did at the sound of her new title. “I always thought you were a dumb little dove,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “But maybe you’ve just been hiding all this time.”

“Hiding what?” she asked, careful to keep her voice airy. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, goodmother.”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“Then you would be mistaken, I’m afraid.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, as she leaned her elbows forward on to her thighs, making it look as if she might pounce upon Sansa at any moment. “My son is barren.”

“Tommen?” she gasps, holding her hand over her heart. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sure there are still plenty of ladies who—”

“No, not Tommen,” she hissed. “Speak plainly with me, girl. Stop pretending that pretty little skull is empty.”

“You surely don’t mean Joffrey?” she asked with wide eyes. “I can assure you that is not the case. I believe that I am finally with child. The kingdom will soon have an heir and—”

“The kingdom will soon have a bastard,” Cersei interrupted. “Joffrey cannot have children. Do you know how many whores have shared his bed? Do you know how many of them have grown with child? Not one. Not a single one.”

“Then the gods have finally blessed us—”

“This has nothing to do with the fucking gods!” Cersei all but screamed, shooting up from the bed so suddenly that Sansa stumbled back into her table and knocked over most of the bottles resting there. “It has everything to do with _you_ , you traitor whore. You have dishonored my son, and you mean to pass the stain of your disloyalty off as the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. What idiot did you convince to do it? Clegane?"

Sansa made sure to keep her face passive, as the last thing she wanted was for Sandor to be punished for her decisions. “The heir to the Seven Kingdoms will be the blood of the lion,” Sansa sneered back. “The babe will be a Lannister, and I would not be the least bit surprised if he or she is blessed with the golden locks and green eyes of the father. I don’t understand what more you could want of me. House Lannister needs Joffrey to produce an heir if it wishes to maintain control. When titles must pass to brother and sisters, reigns grow weaker. They open themselves up for conquerors, for malcontents. I have done you and your kin a great favor.”

Cersei fell silent, and Sansa could see the realization of what had happened dawning on her face. _Unless you wish to put your other son at risk, your entire family at risk, you will challenge me no further._ It was tempting to actually voice the threat, to finally assert some kind of power over her goodmother, but she held back from saying anything too explicit. She would not play the fool they all thought her to be.

“It must have been my great love for Joffrey that finally changed our fates,” Sansa offered sweetly, forcing a shy smile on to her lips. “I’ve prayed to the gods every night since we were wed, and now they’ve finally answered them."

To her surprise, Cersei burst out laughing. It was not a kind laugh. It was low and rough and tinged with bitterness. “All those silly words. The moon eyes you made at my son. I’m not sure I even know who you are, little dove.”

_I am Queen Sansa Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms, a Daughter of the House Stark, the Wardens of the North, and I’ve learned everything I know from you._


End file.
